


Days Cherished

by Aerine



Category: Days Gone
Genre: Explicit Language, F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, Mutual Masturbation, Sexual Content, why is there no fanfics for this game this guy is hot as fuck
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-21
Updated: 2019-05-24
Packaged: 2020-03-08 23:57:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,983
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18905281
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aerine/pseuds/Aerine
Summary: Deacon St. John is the optimist to your pessimist. He is also the best sex you can't wait to have for the rest of your life.





	1. 1

**Author's Note:**

> Imma need y'all to liven up this fandom

“Whose idea was it to have our wedding on New Year’s Eve, of all times?” Your musings induced a shake of the head from your beloved husband at your periphery, his arms crossed over the other as he couldn’t help a chuckle from falling past his lips. Quite an inquiry to ask, the man recalled of a time where your arms clutched at the pockets of his biker vest, your lips brushing against his back before you went on, and _on_ , about the symbolism of marriage hours before that fated countdown. No one will be there, you promised, which was perhaps part of the charm in scheduling it for that day as you and your fiancée—husband, the title as fresh as you as his wife—were not too fond of people. You chimed in with a, “We can just fuckin’ drink the rest of the night!” in front of the wedding planner before Deacon St. John was forced to ruin your fun and remind you that weddings were days worth remembering, and not for suppressing memories of actions done under the influence. The man had a point, and so did your planner and her frown towards such an idea, so you settled on goofy, illuminated glasses and sparkly hats to otherwise celebrate such an occasion.

“’Dunno,” Deacon shrugged, his arm wrapped around your shoulders to pull you close, “couldn’t have been yours.”

A slow nod was your response, your head burying into his chest as you knew damn well it was. Regardless, a huff escaped past your lips as your hands fished into your pocket for your phone, the screen lit to reveal a candid photo of your husband and the family that was his biker gang; he dragged you to one of their meetings with the intention for you to meet and remember each of their names, and perhaps the reason why that event and that picture meant so much was because them, and Deacon, were a constant in your life that it was difficult to imagine life without them teasing you about your height or your past relationships. The photo was enough for a smile to tug on your lips, except a slide of your finger across your screen and the reminder of your flight canceled was quick to remedy that. The honeymoon was Deacon’s idea, a man not so big on traditional weddings but on your relaxation, and the plan for today was to wake up at the crack of dawn to perhaps fall asleep in the confinements of an airplane, reaching the destination in under two hours with the intention to loosen up—have lots of great sex—for the rest of the day.

You jumped out of your bed that morning with a squeak, smacking at Deacon’s arm with the declaration of, “We’re gonna be _late!_ The flights in…” and a check of your watch, “an hour and thirty!”

The two of you were on the road in thirty minutes, suitcases packed beforehand because of your prior worrying that this would happen, with you gripping the steering wheel so tight the man felt compelled to lace his fingers with yours at a red light. His other hand was wrapped around his phone—you begged, _pleaded,_ for this man to buy one and he finally did a year after he was officially your boyfriend—with the vibration enticing his gaze from your trembling to a notification that would most certainly ruin your already sour mood. Your name hung into the air in a murmur, ears perking at the calling of your name before he pulled your eyes from the line of cars before you with a, “You gotta’ promise me you won’t freak out.” A futile attempt nonetheless, a glimmer of hope that you would approach the ruin of your plans calmly was what fueled him into speaking. At first glance it was a successful plan, a mere second passing following his statement before your hand gripped at the steering wheel with a full rotation, the wheels of your vehicle at a slant over lines meant for you to follow before your head fell into your palms with a groan.

“Canceled? _Canceled?_ ” With a slam of your vehicle door, your feet began to prod at pebbles blending with the concrete. “Canceled!”

Deacon huffed. “Saying it four times ain’t gonna make a difference, y’know.”

“Fuckin’ canceled!” Your shoe halted short of forming a dent in your car, and you decided to instead displace your anger in clenching your fists and grunting out your disapproval. “Whose idea was it to have our wedding on New Years Eve, of all times?”

With a shake of his head, you were pulled into his embrace as he managed to crack a smile despite the course of events. The man understood of worse situations, always searching for a way out; when his wife exhibited signs of weakness, he was to complement the trait with the strength and optimism you lacked. Deacon promised that life for you on New Years Eve, vows countered with your half-assed promise of, “ _When things are down, I’ll bring ‘em back up,_ ” except now tears were at the corner of your eyes with the refusal for them to trail past your cheeks lest your strife be evident, with the idea reigning above all else being _fuck this vacation, I’ll fuck him in our dumb, stupid apartment_ but you loved that apartment and you loved him. Regardless, he chimed in with the attempt to alleviate your sorrow with the notion of a six-hour road trip, and because you were unable of coherent thought following your meltdown, that was the best damn idea you have ever heard.


	2. 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Your day keeps getting worse, but at least Deacon St. John is good with his hands.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NOW IT'S THREE PARTS MUAHAHAHA

An even better idea was approaching, one eliciting a hum as pensive as Deacon’s shuffling of gazes between sweet and saltiness. There was no question regarding your decision, as it had been your goal the moment you first pressed your lips against his as a married couple, but Deacon stood towering over the shelf with his fingers stroking his chin as if it would assist his choice between potato chips and chocolate. Something about his eyes squinting, muscles flexing beyond his denim vest did wonders to you as you slid across marble tiles to reclaim your spot beside the man, not at all providing any favors in helping his indecisive behavior. Within seconds you were inhaling his musk, nose burying into the crook of his neck as his scent would remind you of home. Home was the place where memories of him would linger under magnets of your refrigerator and atop the sheets of your bed. Home was becoming used to his visits, your overnight escapades before work; home was unfortunately somewhere you would rather be, but you supposed the car would do.

“What’s… _fuck,_ what’s gotten into you?”

If it were any other situation, his words would be caught up in laughter, not at all opposing your actions. However, the words that left him were nothing more than the aftermath of whimpers and voices pleading for air in quite the suffocating location. With his jeans pooled to his ankles, his hand was wrapped around his cock as his finger slathered his precum around the tip and around the veins of his erect member. His teeth dug into his bottom lip, eyes lidded as his release was to be brought by him, and him only. Of course, he could imagine you taking him all into your mouth, tears trailing past your cheeks as your hands gripped at his thighs and enticed your further to him so you could _really_ show him how it was done. There was always the alternative thought, his tongue wrapped around your nipple as his hands held yours captive above your head, his body thrusting into you in a rhythm that grew erratic as time passed, and as pleasure became evident. However, with a glance at his periphery and a tug of his member, a groan was what fell past his lips as his hips mimicked yours in thrusting.

Unlike his, your legs were spread with one foot hanging off of Deacon’s leg and the other somehow in the cupholder of your passenger seat door, fingers of your right hand working at your pussy. With your head thrown back, a whimper was what followed your husbands groan, your other hand preoccupied with grasping at the material of your headrest. Of course you could lure your husband towards damnation with a breathless cry of his name, except you had to thank God first for deciding that no one would share this moment in you in this parking lot. Thank God the moon was at a waning crescent, the only illumination being lights high above your vehicle flickering at its last breath. _Thank God_ no one could witness the two of you making the biggest fool out of yourselves. Regardless, the pads of your fingers were prodding at your pearl, matched with your husbands need to cum before the shame finally caught up to him.

“Deek,” you murmured, your gaze unable to depart from his tip swollen and wet with his juices, “Deek, this is so fu—”

“Fuckin’ stupid?” The man seethed, cupping at his balls before looking to you. “Yeah? Th-This was… your idea.” He shook his head. “God, baby, I wanna touch you so bad.”

Before you could absolve yourself of the build up in process, a hand that was once gripping at the dashboard was now between your thighs in hopes of bringing that build up to fruition. The hairs of your skin stood at the welcome contact, his fingers rubbing at your entrance before diving in to show _you_ how it was really done. They were slick with your juices, allowing the digits to thrust in and out of you in a pace that contradicted his plead for release prior, your mouth falling open as he continued to work you until exhaustion. No vernacular could prepare you for the flame traveling throughout your skin, the spark traveling between each and every one of your nerves, the only exception a two-syllable name that felt foreign the more you sputtered the request for him to move faster, deeper. A kind man your husband was to comply, his middle finger brushed against that certain spot, a galaxy far, far away returning to your vision as you cried out his name for more. You could never get enough.

However, enough was what you would have to settle for, as your juices spilled over his hand with a drawn-out cry of explicit language mixed with another show of gratitude to God for blessing you with a man so adept with his hands. You were in the process of returning from your high, unable to find the vocabulary to comment as nothing but pants and thoughtful hums crawled up your throat. His fingers remained inside your bundle of nerves, except he heightened your sensitivity with a kiss that was slow in pace but high in sensuality. Your moans that followed were swallowed by his tongue, clashing with yours in an attempt to perhaps continue the activities in the back seat… was not the best place, but he supposed it would do.

A vibration beneath you threatened to ruin that, and you gifted him with one last peck in the form of an apology before your arm reached towards your bare back, trailing past your spine to jerk your phone from the warmth of your behind. A smile was what enhanced the glow on your skin, tugging at your lips with such strength that no other situation could have replicated it… and then your irises adjusted to the text embellished with the words, _“I apologize for any confusion, but your room is no longer available for stay. Please call the number below for any questions and needed refunds and…”_

“Well, fuck it. Back seat it is.”


End file.
